Not at all pleasing. The water thrashes again, almost like a cat's lashing tail. The corners of the Mother's faces are tight. She has been thrown through time and space against her will, almost as though she were a pawn for another's will, and not only is she forced to stay, but the odds are thrown against her -- even in things as simple as memory.

"I am the Mother of Faces." The words bear down in their weight. "I brought identity to the world. Separateness. I make the faces the beings of this world wear. To be stuck as though I were something less than this . . . Who has done this? They must be found. Immediately."

They must be informed. She is no one to be trifled with, and she will not forgive.

"What progress have you made on this matter?"